what you’re trying to say.” She grew hesitant. “This isn’t for a funeral, is it? You didn’t get a bad phone call last night? Your mother didn’t get ill on another rubber chicken dinner?”
“Well, she did eat out, but all seems okay so far.”
Clearing her throat, Devan tried to restrain an outright grin. “Then this is a birthday, anniversary, thank you or…just because gift?”
“Is it possible to…blend the latter two?”
“Sure, and how nice.” It was good to see him again and Devan hoped this meant his mother wasn’t upset that he’d stopped by last night. Or was this some last gesture before the ax fell? “That leaves you with lots of choices, in fact just about anything will work aside from calla lilies—although, personally, I adore them for elegant evening centerpieces.”
“You do?”
“Aside from just loving white flowers, they’re graceful yet surprisingly sturdy.” She gestured toward the long-stemmed beauties in the lower bucket. “If you’re sending these to a lady, white embodies everything—beauty, spirituality, nature at her most gentle. Whatever the flower—gladiola, carnation, rose—okay daisy is a bit impish—but the rest are saying a dozen things with each blossom via their purity.” Remembering that Lavender would be back in a moment, she cleared her throat and resumed her hastier sales pitch. “But those yellow roses are particularly vibrant this week, and so are the coral ones. On the other hand, we can do a sparkling bouquet with multiple seasonal colors. Your choice—I promise Dreamscapes never disappoints.”
Mead studied the cooler once again. “I guess the white roses are the way to go.”
Pleasure warred with regret as Devan reached for the order pad. She’d loved looking at them since they arrived yesterday afternoon and hoped whoever received them would appreciate how special they were—as was the person taking such care in choosing them. As she filled in his name, she said, “Lucky whomever. Okay, how many?”
“All of them.”
A muted cough drew Devan’s attention outside again. In the doorway stood Barry Sweat, Precinct 2 Constable in Franklin County. The one and only time he’d been into the shop had been to buy three carnations for his third wife for Valentine’s Day. Devan wanted to go out and suggest he pay more attention to the potholes over by their neighborhood than to eavesdropping. Instead she leaned across the counter to keep her voice low. “Mead, there are three dozen.”
“That’s what I figure.”
She didn’t doubt he could afford them but didn’t want to be seen as taking advantage. On the other hand, the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she would stop being the morning entertainment. “Just checking. Do you want us to bill you? Your mother has an account.”
Mead pulled out his wallet. “I’ll take care of it.”
Expecting a credit card, Devan was surprised to see him pull out cash. “Fine. Now where do we deliver?”
“Three twenty-seven Circle.”
The seven ended up looking like one of those tin curlicue wind-catchers, and for good reason. The address was hers. Almost. Looking up, she met his calm scrutiny. “Do you mean Lane?”
“Is it Lane? Lane.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, not believing this was happening.
The carousel of sentiment cards stood on the counter and he turned it, studying the offerings. “Can I choose and write my own?”
“No. Yes. I mean…Mead, you can’t come in here and—send me flowers.”
“Where else should I go?”
“Nowhere. There’s no reason to do this. No need.” Through the French doors she saw Lavender heading back. How her friend would eat this up. A born romantic as well as an optimist, Lavender had come into town almost three years ago with her then boyfriend in a beaten-up van. The boyfriend and van had moved on, but she had stayed. Seeing Devan “matched up better” was always on her mind. “Please, Mead. It’s a lovely gesture, but no.”
He studied her and some light dimmed in his eyes. “You’re embarrassed that I’m here.”
“No.” Impulsively, Devan put her hand over his. “It’s not that simple—and hopefully, I’m not that shallow. But this enterprise isn’t just about me. I have a partner and we have debt. There are customers we can’t afford to lose.”
“My mother.”
“Among others.”
“Riley Walsh?”
“It would be unethical for me to say anything else.”
“Let me worry about my mother,” he said, nodding to the pad. “Take the order or I’ll figure some other way to do this.”
Why? Did he even know? No, he seemed stable enough; she wouldn’t listen to gossip. But even so, fear gripped her. Was this incredible gesture the sign that he intended to continue with the mind-set that he’d broached last night? She couldn’t let him. On the other hand, losing the sale and explaining the reason to Lavender would be no party, either.
Devan decided to total his bill, then she took the cash to make change. “Thank you.” She kept her eyes on what she was doing. “Really. This is…lovely.”
“You’re welcome. When can I see you again?”
He was going to scrape her insides raw. “Mead, I’m so shaken, I’m about to lose the breakfast I barely ate.”
Confusion shadowed those dark eyes. “I’ve made you sick?”
“Oh, no! It’s because—” how did she make him understand? “—I did an extra good job convincing myself that I’d never see you again. And then there’s the man you were. I don’t believe he…you would be doing this.”
“But I am.” He leaned closer to force her to meet his gaze. “Would you be hoping I would?”
She couldn’t bring herself to answer.
That won a real smile from Mead and he dropped the bulk of the cash she’d returned to him onto her copy of the invoice. “Add the yellow roses.”
“Oh, no, Mead, please—”
“Think about me, not who you think I should be, or the people you keep looking at outside. Not my mother.”
As he left, Lavender burst through the French doors with her usual energy and curiosity. “Who was that? Whoa—long legs, tight butt and shoulders so wide he wouldn’t notice if I ate a pint of ice cream every night. Did he place an order?”
“Does the word Rhys ring a bell with you?” Devan said, a little exasperated.
“Of course.” Lavender set a glorious purple orchid on the counter. “I’m just asking.”
“Yes, he placed an order.”
“Super, so we’ve got his phone number.”
“We already have it on file.”
“We do?
“It’s the same as Pamela Regan’s.”
“Oh. Oh…wow.”
Devan sighed. “You can say that again.”
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